When pain digs deep into my heart and leaves a big lump in my throat, the only person that listens is my white blank page.
It listens to the tiny strokes, the tiny curves my pen has to say.
Deep from my heart, my pen flows gently like the streams of my village Obrete.
When joy drops like honey on my heart's tongue, my pen dances like the maiden dances on the hills of my village Atta.
The blue strokes on my white blank page makes my audience understand the sweet symphony that caresses the lyric of the song in my heart.
You know the way the harmattan breeze kisses your hands to chills after a wash, so my heart chills after a raging fire of random words find a rhythm on my white blank page.
These written words on my white blank page stick to my heart as a copper soil stick to the feets of children clamouring in my village square.